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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191623">(not) just another bad day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotBettaRed/pseuds/NotBettaRed'>NotBettaRed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>bad ideas [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Backstory, Canon Typical Hank is in a Bad Place, Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:47:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,543</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotBettaRed/pseuds/NotBettaRed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Cole Anderson's birthday. Or at least it would have been. But Cole's dead, and Hank's broken, and Gavin really wishes that he didn't care.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hank Anderson/Gavin Reed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>bad ideas [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745998</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(not) just another bad day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is set two years pre-game. Just a bit of backstory and Gavin POV I need to have in place before I can write some post-game fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September 23, 2036</p><p>Gavin pounded on the door again, feeling the sting of it in his knuckles from how long he'd already been at it. "Open the fucking door, Hank. I'm not going away!"</p><p>Another gust of wind howled past, bringing a spray of icy rain. He cursed and pulled his jacket tighter around him. "Fuck this," he muttered, turning away from the door. Gavin made his way around the side of the house, looking for the rock where Hank used to hide the spare key, praying it was still there. If not then he'd just break a damned window. It took a few minutes of searching but eventually he found it, right where it had always been.</p><p>The key was caked with mud so he wiped it off on his jeans and then had to dig some out of the groove with his thumbnail, but when he jammed it in the lock on the front door it turned and the lock clicked open. Gavin pushed the door open a crack and called out, "I'm coming in, so don't fucking shoot me." As the door swung open he took a deep breath and was hit with the stench of vomit and stale whiskey, but he had been half expecting to smell a rotting corpse, so some of the tension in his chest eased.</p><p>Hank was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the television, showing no sign that he even knew Gavin was standing there. There was a nearly empty bottle of Black Lamb on the floor by his foot, a stain on his shirt that Gavin would bet good money on being vomit, and a revolver lying on the table nearby. </p><p>Gavin's stomach twisted, and he clenched his jaw, because this was so fucking far above his paygrade, but eventually he managed to get out, "No one's heard from you in three days. We thought--" He broke off, dragged a hand across his face, and shook his head. "Well somebody had to come check on you."</p><p>Hank finally turned to look at him, the movement slow, like just turning his head was a monumental effort, and his eyes were filled with so much pain that Gavin had to fight not to look away. "Go away," Hank said, his voice flat and dead.</p><p>"I can't." That was the truth. Gavin had been trying to turn around and walk away from Hank for years and it had never worked. He sure as fuck couldn't do it now.</p><p>Hank sighed, leaned forward to grab the bottle of whiskey, and went back to staring blankly at the television. Gavin didn't know what to do. He was crap at emotional shit. Tina was the one who knew how to deal with things like this, but she wasn't here, and she hated Hank, so this was on him. He took a deep breath. Okay. One problem at a time.</p><p>Gavin went into Hank's room and dug through the dresser until he found a clean shirt. He went back out and tossed the shirt into Hank's lap. "At least change your fucking shirt," he said, then headed into the kitchen. The fridge was almost completely empty, which just confirmed his suspicions that Hank hadn't bothered with food in a while, and the cupboards weren't much better. Eventually he found a box of crackers and pulled out a pack, because it was better than nothing.</p><p>When he got back to the living room, Hank hadn't moved. "Oh for fuck's sake," Gavin muttered. He threw the pack of crackers down on the couch and grabbed the bottle of whiskey out of Hank's hand. He expected Hank to fight him on that. He expected Hank to at least do <i>something</i>. But Hank still didn't fucking move. Gavin wanted to throw the bottle at the wall, but he just slammed it down on the table. "You fucking stink," he said flatly. "You're wearing your own damn puke. Can you please just put on a clean shirt? <i>Fuck.</i>" </p><p>Nothing. It was like he wasn't even there. Gavin snapped. He reached forward, grabbed the collar of Hank's shirt, and pulled, very determinedly not thinking about all the other times he had tried to tear Hank's clothes off. At least that finally got a reaction. Hank tried to bat his hands away, his movements drunk and uncoordinated, but Gavin didn't let up.</p><p>"Get your hands off me," Hank slurred. When Gavin didn't let go Hank reached out, grabbing a handful of Gavin's shirt, and his other hand balled into a fist.</p><p>"What? Are you going to hit me now?" Gavin asked. "Just fucking do it! <i>Please.</i>" He actually wanted him to, because maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would finally be the thing that would let him walk away and not look back.</p><p>Hank let go. He shoved Gavin away. Gavin took a step back. His jaw clenched. He glared at the far wall until finally, <i>finally</i>, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hank start to struggle out of his soiled shirt. He let out the breath he had been holding in a loud huff. "Okay then," Gavin muttered. He walked over and dropped heavily onto the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.</p><p>Silence dragged on, only distantly broken by the news report on the television, volume turned too low to actually understand what the talking heads were saying. Gavin didn't want to be here. This was the last place he wanted to be. He shouldn't even give a fuck. He should have stopped caring eight years ago when Hank had dumped his ass to try and get back with his ex-wife, to go have a kid, to go play happy family. Except Gavin hadn't stopped caring, and now he couldn't even be pissed off about it without being the worst kind of asshole, because the kid was dead and Hank was fucking <i>broken.</i></p><p>For almost a year now Hank had been walking around like a zombie. Dead eyes and dead spirit and never showing even a spark of an emotion that wasn't anger. Except slowly there had been signs that things were getting better. Sometimes Hank actually showed up at work before the shift was half over. Sometimes he actually did his job. Sometimes Gavin could get a small glimpse of the man that he used to idolize.</p><p>Then last week it was like the ground had opened back up under him and he was right back in that pit. Hank showed up to work completely drunk. Fought with Fowler so loud that they probably heard it in Canada. Stormed out. Didn't come back. Then yesterday Gavin's calendar had pinged with the reminder: Cole Anderson, birthday, Sep 23, and Gavin had remembered why this week was different.</p><p>There was the quiet sound of movement beside him. The drag of glass across wood. Hank swallowing. Then, barely more than a whisper, "What are you even doing here, Gavin?"</p><p>Gavin didn't look up. Just fisted his hands in his hair, squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't fucking know." He let out a sigh, reached out blindly, found the pack of crackers and tossed it over. "Eat something, will you?"</p><p>Time dragged on, and an eternity later there was the crinkle of cellophane, then the sound of chewing. At least it was something. A little more of the tension in Gavin's chest eased.</p><p>On the television screen the news report ended. Commercials played, and then a movie started, one he recognized. "Can I at least change the channel?" Gavin asked, not holding out much hope. "This movie fucking sucks."</p><p>Hank lifted the remote. Turned up the volume. Put the remote back down.</p><p>Gavin sighed. "Okay then," he said. "Shitty fucking movies it is." </p><p>There wasn't anything Gavin could do to help. There was nothing he could say to Hank that would actually make a difference. But he could sit here, next to Hank, while he was hurting, and watch a terrible movie. At least it was something.</p><p>On screen, the hero gunned down a ridiculous number of entirely unconvincing terrorists with a wide assortment of automatic weapons. Gavin kept watching, trying to focus on the nonexistent plot, because it was better than dwelling on his own, rather depressing thoughts. The film approached its climax, the blood drenched protagonist luring in the big bad so he could take him out with a fucking Christmas tree packed with explosives. It was so incredibly stupid that Gavin wanted to claw his brain out to escape it.</p><p>The screen lit up with CGI pyrotechnics and then, insanely, he heard a sound that made his heart stop. It was short, and rough, and rusty from disuse...but Hank actually fucking laughed. It was nothing. It was just someone laughing at a really fucking bad movie. It was <i>nothing</i>. Except Gavin had really thought that he would never hear that sound again, especially not on a day like today. So, in a way, it was everything.</p><p>"You're right," Hank said. "This movie does fucking suck." He picked up the remote and tossed it to Gavin. "Watch what you want."</p><p>"No," Gavin said, voice tight. "This is good. I wanna see how it ends."</p>
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